He said that while I was standing in the doorway with my broken suitcase and my crumbling future, wearing clothes that did not fit because I had grown out of everything during the years my parents spent pretending my late presentation was not happening.
I remember the way his hand hovered near my shoulder but did not touch. The way his eyes glistened but did not spill. The way he turned away before I could see if the man who taught me to fly on ice could also cry on solid ground.
I remember the smell of his coaching jacket. Pine and ice and the faint burn of coffee from the thermos he carried to every morning practice. The smell of safety. The smell of a man who built his entire world around discipline and excellence and somehow failed to build a world that included his Omega daughter.
I hated him for it.
For years, I hated him.
Because leaving did not free me. Leaving cut me off. Left me broke. Left me surviving in communal housing on drops of leftover coffee and scraps of sympathy from people who pitied me just enough to share but never enough to truly help.
Leaving forced me to suffer in a world that pities Omegas until we are needed. Until we become useful. Until we transform from burdens into assets, like diamonds hidden deep in piles of coal, only valuable once someone decides to dig us out and polish us into shapes that serve their purposes.
I hate that I have to prove myself to make it in this life.
The anger rises, familiar and bitter, curling through my chest like smoke.
I hate that despite everything I just did on that ice, despite the goals, the speed, the strategy, the proof that I am more thanwhat they see when they look at my ancient phone and my safety-pin bag and my secondhand clothes, I still have to race Rafe to prove myself further.
I hate that my worth is always conditional. Always dependent on the next performance, the next demonstration, the next act of brilliance that temporarily convinces people I am not the helpless Omega they assumed I was.
I grit my teeth.
But I know I can beat him.
And I am going to do exactly that.
The anger shifts, transforming from resentment into fuel. The same fuel that used to propel me through competitions, through auditions, through every moment on the ice where the world expected me to fail and I chose to fly instead.
But I do not want to spend my life around people who belittle me. That is the whole reason I left. That is the entire point of starting over. I am not here to prove my potential to someone who will always use my born traits against me. I did not choose to become an Omega. This is the path that was chosen for me, and I need to be around people who do not just accept it but allow me to blossom and thrive within it.
So beat him. Beat him clean. Beat him fast. And then go to the library, because your education matters more than any Alpha's ego.
"SET!"
Coach Mercer's hand rises higher.
I lower my center of gravity, coiling my legs beneath me. Beside me, Rafe mirrors the position, his broad frame angled forward, his gray eyes locked on the distant boards with predatory focus.
The arena holds its breath.
I can feel them all watching. The team on the boards, sticks gripped tight. Sage clutching Archie's arm. Etienne standing atthe goal with his hands pressed against the glass. Cal with his arms crossed, his amber eyes sharp and unblinking. Vanessa and her group, some sneering, some curious. Coach Lizzy and Miss Phillips side by side, identical expressions of anticipation on their twin faces.
Everyone is waiting to see if the Omega can beat the captain.
"GO!"
I shoot off the line like a bullet leaving a chamber.
Rafe explodes beside me, his first three strides powerful and aggressive, the raw force of an Alpha built for straight-line speed. His blades chew into the ice with deep, gouging strokes that launch him forward with brute efficiency. He is fast. Genuinely, undeniably fast. His stride is long, his power immense, his training evident in every calculated push.
For the first half of the rink, I keep pace with him.
Deliberately.
I match his speed stride for stride, my blades cutting the surface with shorter, sharper strokes that sacrifice power for control. I can feel the vibration of his skating through the ice beneath me, the thundering percussion of an Alpha at full force. His shadow stretches beside mine on the gleaming surface, larger, broader, the silhouette of someone who has spent his life being told he is faster and stronger and more worthy than anyone beside him.
The crowd is screaming, their voices echoing off the rafters in a wall of noise that vibrates through my bones. I can hear individual shouts breaking through the chaos.
